


'cause I've read your horoscope, and now I've given up all hope

by miabicicletta



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Trust me on this one, Wedding Sex, angsty angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 21:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miabicicletta/pseuds/miabicicletta
Summary: By now the liter or so of Saint-Émilion she'd made him drink (in some dusky, leafy corner of the obnoxious and overwrought English garden), combined with the sight of her mussed and falling hair, her rosy cheeks, the flash of pink tongue as she slid his belt from the loops...the sharp, lightning-bolt shock of desire made his mouth go dry.





	'cause I've read your horoscope, and now I've given up all hope

**Author's Note:**

> Just a smutty (not even really smutty; smut-light) little thing that snuck up on me while writing The Longer Thing That's Still Coming. 
> 
> Title comes from the great Magnetic Fields song, **["I Don't Really Love You Anymore"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oodKrSy0zMo)**. Unbeta-ed, so all my errors my own.
> 
> Stick with me on this one.

They sloshed through the door into his room in a messy, tipsy tangle, were half across the bed before he could think a coherent thought.

 

 _Shouldn’t,_  some last-gasp rational part of his mind sang out. _Not here. Not like this._

 

Then she went and unzipped her dress, and the better angels of his nature were quickly drowned out in a rush of blood to all points south.

 

 _Christ._ Weddings really weren’t his thing.

 

He had no idea why he was there. Social niceties, he supposed. A gesture; the showing of _fineness_ and other measured, adult reactions to the minor horrors that accompanied settling into adulthood.

 

De _light_ ful.

 

She shoved the jacket off his shoulders, tugging the sleeves down. He wiggled his shoulders a bit, pulled off the right arm, then the left, and flung the thing in some vague chair-ish direction in a corner. She was leaning over him, had his belt half undone. Her head dipped close to his and he caught a whiff of her shampoo. She smelled like flowers.

 

He shouldn’t have come. They’d all expected him to make some excuse. Beg-off; run away. He had wanted to; _still_ wanted to, and wished he had, because they _shouldn’t be doing this_.

 

She slow-blinked those huge brown eyes, all sly and sweet.

 

Except— _oh God_ —he wanted to; wanted it; wanted  _her_. 

 

By now the liter or so of Saint-Émilion she'd made him drink (in some dusky, leafy corner of the obnoxious and overwrought English garden), combined with the sight of her mussed and falling hair, her rosy cheeks, the flash of pink tongue as she slid his belt from the loops...the sharp, lightning-bolt shock of desire made his mouth go dry.

 

The entire day he’d watched Molly. Molly posing for pictures, and Molly sipping her wine, and Molly, laughing, laughing, laughing.

 

It had torn something ugly and old and sore, some wound he'd thought healed, but now felt like salt had been poured in. Salt, or formaldehyde, or fucking gasoline. It burned, seeing her radiate with such vivid, technicolor happiness. With _him_.

 

And there it was: jealousy, rearing its thick, vicious head. 

 

He kissed her. _Hard_.

 

He flipped them over, pinned her beneath him so he was on top and in control. She made a breathless little gasp that turned into a moan as he reached back and undid her bra clasp, lowering his mouth to one breast, then other. 

 

It was petty and nasty and more than a little bit cruel how badly he wanted to leave marks.

 

His mouth, his hands...

 

( _His_ teeth _, his_ fingers _..._ )

 

He wanted people to see.

 

He wanted them to _know_.

 

She kissed the underside of his jaw, undid the buttons of his shirt, ran her hands along his chest and flank and back boldly. He liked that she was confidant. It snuffed out the last niggling big hesitation. He sat back to remove his trousers, she took in the sight, appreciative, those dark eyes made darker with desire. She didn’t seem drunk. She was present and lucid enough. Active, even, tugging at his waistband, buttons, divesting him of the last of his clothes. She threw his pants behind her. They landed on the window sill, above her bright flowerprint dress.  

 

He knew every dress Molly had ever worn. Every one.

 

They stripped each other until they were completely bare.

 

She giggled, mouth turned up, sweet and amused and so, _so_ sexy. He hated himself for how strong his reaction to her was, but he didn't stop. Couldn't now, and wouldn't choose to. There was only going forward from here. 

 

She wound her hands in his hair. “Always liked these." She smiled against his lips, tugging a handful of curls at the back of his head.

 

His neck arched as she scratched her nails along his scalp and kissed her way along his throat.

 

 _Molly_ , he thought. Fuck.

 

It was good. More than good, really.

 

There was so much of Molly in his head, she pulled a dozen emotional threads all at once; it was all some jumble of things firing at once, liked some molten, pyrotechnic pile of crossed and sparking wires: promises broken and secrets kept; anger and jealousy and resentment and missed opportunities; rage ( _How could you_? he wanted to ask, wanted to shout, but couldn’t and so just fucked harder, moved faster, bit down) and also affection, and tenderness.

 

Above all, there was the tight, hot, searing sort of grief-that-wasn’t (not grief, not really), was more embarrassment and self-loathing and regret.

 

Firsts in love and second chances; gold rings and lost time.

 

Sliding doors, and all of them shut.

 

Yet in some undefinable way he felt open, totally exposed to her. His heart was laid utterly bare. She knew. He could see that. It freed them both to be as they were, be _who_ they were, to give and take what they wanted, what they needed from each other. They didn’t hold back. 

 

Also, they were loud. 

 

 _Good,_ he thought, in the darkest, most immature and vindictive corner of his heart. He hoped people heard.

 

Hoped _he_ heard.

 

He dozed a little after, not quite ready to break the idle and go back to it all, and so just laid there in the damp, used-up sheets. He felt used-up, too, the way the swan-figure napkins had been after dinner: Held close for a bit, till they were discarded, left behind somewhere, forgotten.

 

He looked over at her.

 

She sat up, reached for the half-empty bottle of Brut they’d abandoned on the nightstand.

 

“To the happy couple,” she said. “They deserve each other.”

 

The words should have been mean, and maybe she meant them that way. To him, they sounded sad.

 

She handed him the bottle, a teasing grin in her mouth, but there was something else to her expression, too. A far-awayness. He wondered what was going through her head, then. If she felt the same things he did, if she felt the same way. Maybe she was only half in this room, too.

 

“Do you love him?” he asked.

 

It wouldn’t boggle the mine. She _was_ engaged to him, after all.

 

(Still, the contempt in his voice surprised him.)

 

Her expression turned sharp, like she couldn’t _believe_ he’d asked, and how _dare_ he?

 

He waited, unrepentant.

 

Whatever other expressions followed were a mystery not to be revealed. She turned to face the window, pulled on her pants, her bra ( _matching, black, lace_ ). She looped the arms of the flowery dress over her shoulders.

 

“Do you?” he asked, again.

 

“No,” she said, finally. She turned to face him, smiling overly bright. “Never did. Well, maybe a little, ha ha,” she laughed at herself, self-deprecating. “But, no. Not really.”

 

He pulled on his pants, his socks, the fancy dress trousers he already detested. They’d sit in his wardrobe, taking up space, atrocious and unwearable, and remind him of _weddings_ every time he went looking for a shirt.    

 

“What about us?” He cinched the laces of his dress shoes across the tops of the feet. Tight.

 

“What?”

 

He stood, shook out his crumpled jacket and pulled it on. He looped his tie over around his neck. “You said they deserved each other.”

 

He stepped closer.

 

“What about what we deserve?”

 

She turned, silently instructing him to zip up her dress.

 

Freckles flooded his mind. He brushed the long brown hair over her shoulder.

 

He tugged the tab, watched the mesh of metal teeth. The red fabric pulled tight around the swell of her hips, the curve of her breasts.

 

 _Molly_. He thought, he longed, he _ached_.  

 

She faced him, stepped in close to straighten his tie (he hated ties), and he felt more than a bit feeble, her doing his tie because he’d done it badly. Made him feel stupid and small and sadder than he thought possible.  

 

She set her hands on his shoulders, looked up at him, really looked. She opened her mouth once, as if she were about to speak, but closed it.

 

Shook her head and threw up her hands. “Ah, feck if I know, Tommyboy,” Janine half-laughed, half-sighed, and the wink she gave him was less a flirtation, more the consolation prize. 

 

 _She really is pretty,_ Tom thought. Not that it made a difference.

 

She found her purse, touched up her makeup in the vanity mirror.

 

Below, the long summer twilight was slipping into a soft summer night, and Molly—not Molly Hooper; now Molly Holmes—was dancing with her husband who wasn't him, wearing a ring that wasn't his. 

 

Still laughing. Still smiling. Still so, _so_ happy.

 

Crushingly, Sherlock looked even happier than new wife did (if possible). Someone's toddler was presently sat in his arms, painting a idyllic picture of events to come.

 

Tom tried not to look. It was too much. Even now (what? two years on? _Pathetic._ ) it was too much.

 

He watched Janine instead. She did that muddling thing women did with their lips, pulled them taut, let them loosen, studying them for signs of imperfection. He caught her eye in the mirror.

 

“Buy the lady a drink?” he said, covering. Not that they needed more alcohol, but it was mostly for want of something to do that wasn’t standing around looking wistful and miserable.

 

She gave him The Look in the mirror. “Ah, you’re a gas...” she said.

 

(Though  _you’re_ _creeping me out,_  was what it sounded like.)

 

“...but no, all the same.”

 

He nodded.

 

Janine looped her arm in his. “C’mon. Best be getting back. Can’t keep the newlyweds waiting. Let’s go hover a bit and make them feel terribly awkward, shall we?” She threw him an evil smile and squeezed his hand, and he fell in love with her a little for that. 

 

She glanced out the window a final time. “My him and your her. Huh. How about that.”

 

She gave an ironic smile. _Can ya believe it?_

 

Yes, and no. He didn't believe in a lot of things. Did, others. 

 

Tom held the door as Janine stepped through, then followed her into the hall.

 

The lock clicked softly in place as the door closed behind them.

 

**Author's Note:**

> (I did the thing again. You all probably figured it out by now. I'm a one-trick pony in this town.)
> 
> Poor Tom. Sad puppy. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are adored and appreciated :)


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